


the place where you anchored

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Protective Instincts, author wanking about leatherworking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:25:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sinew is thicker than the horsehair he uses on cuts and gashes, but the movements, the patience, the litany he whispers of love and protection, these are all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the place where you anchored

**Author's Note:**

> There is an open area in this fandom regarding the proper terminology for the shoulder pieces. I have chosen to go with "brassard" given its traditional purpose of displaying rank or insignia, the area it usually covers, and the fact that a knowledgable person spent forty-five minutes passionately convincing me and I am a sucker for passion.
> 
> Thank you to Cee and [Ronnie](http://laughing-baubo.tumblr.com), always. Both are rough on my commas but gentle on me and I would be lost without them.
> 
> I have all sorts of headcanons as to why the piece used on the field belongs to Aramis. I will not fill this space with them but my [tumblr](http://werebearbearbar.tumblr.com) ask box is open.

He catches himself staring at it. He fingers the chest strap and toys with the buckle and vows he’ll never forget this day. He’ll never forget the feel of the mud under his knees, the quiet seriousness of His Majesty’s voice, and the pride of his brothers crashing over him like waves. It is nearly enough to hush the fierce longing for his father.

As they are riding back to the garrison he rubs at it, pretending an ache to cover how he is nearly petting the stiff leather. 

“Don’t get attached, that one’s mine.” Aramis’ voice is fond but the statement startles d’Artagnan nonetheless.

“Yours?”

“Yes. The one I usually wear over my sparring gambeson. We agreed we should be prepared for this eventuality. His Majesty couldn’t go forever without seeing what we’ve all known from the beginning.”

Athos arches an eyebrow and Aramis smirks. “Well, almost the beginning.”

“So you’ve been carrying this around for… weeks? Just tucked in your saddle bag whenever we ride out?”

Aramis’ answering smile is soft and he shrugs. “These are the things you do.”

When they arrive back at the barracks there is a crush of well-wishers and back-slappers, and a clamor of voices raised in congratulations and cheer. The candles are low when the others leave and just the four of them remain, but there is enough light for d’Artagnan to see the oilcloth bundle Athos holds out to him. He had thought to commission one from a saddler, he is silent and wide-eyed in the face of their gift.

Perhaps they will tell him, someday, about how this piece in particular was a labor of their love. Athos will tell him of how he, the only one with coin for such a thing, had gone to the currier and sifted through the pile of shoulder cuts until he found a piece of enough size with the perfect weight. 

***

The light in the currier's shop is not good, but this is an action of feel as much as sight. The leather dust settles on his hands with each piece he discards as unsuitable. The hide should be thick and sturdy but not stiff. It should bend with the wearer but not fold when at rest. The piece he eventually selects is stiffer than he would like and so he buys some tallow as well.

Tracing the forms is a lesson in patience. Athos uses his own brassard for reference, rolling along the curve and outlining the edges on the new leather with the nail of his thumb. When he has them all outlined, the upper and lower lames, the straps of the elbow piece, the largest panel of the the shoulder, he sharpens his knife. The pieces come free at last and Athos takes a moment to smile at the idea that all these strange pieces will come together into a functioning whole. That they will overlap and protect the places where they meet. The symbolism is not lost on him. A bit obvious, he thinks, but not so heavy-handed as having his family home burning around him.

The next night he comes home with a strip of linen bandage and an appropriately-sized stone. Athos soaks the leather pieces in the water bucket, listening until the hissing sound of air escaping the hide stops. One at a time he pulls the wet strips from the bucket, draping them over the rock and forming them with his fingers. He presses, tugs, shapes, feeling how soft and malleable the leather is when it’s wet, and finally leaving the strips by the fire to dry. The large piece is the hardest, needing to curve at the top but lay straight along the arm. 

In the end the best mold for it is Athos’ own brassard. He pulls at the wet hide with this thumbs, moving it over the curve, pinching the excess at the top where it will be hidden by other pieces, and wraps it in the linen, holding the pieces tight. He leaves them nested together to dry overnight, set by the fire as it burns to embers. 

Each night when he wipes his own brassard clean he rubs some tallow into the new pieces, folds and curves and works the flat parts in his hands until they soften and the patina grows richer. A few more days of tallow and working to restore the softness into the curve and he takes the pieces and the leftover tallow to Aramis. 

The fire in the tavern is perhaps not enough light to work by, but it will do for this. Aramis takes his favorite knife, sharpens it against a stone, and lays the pieces out on the table. The lames are lined up, marked with the blunt edge of a fork, then scored and beveled with Aramis’ knife. 

The fleur-de-lis is carved last. With the same delicate touch he uses to sew their wounds he brings life into each curl of a petal, each strong groove. Fitting, then, that his last step is to sew the fleur to the main panel. The sinew is thicker than the horsehair he uses on cuts and gashes, but the movements, the patience, the litany he whispers of love and protection, these are all the same.

The pieces come to Porthos wrapped rather pretentiously in linen, and he snorts at the package before opening it. When d’Artagnan leaves that night to return to his lodgings Porthos slides his repair kit out from under his bed. He pulls out rivets, awls, setting tools, and the heavy short-handled hammer. It is easier to work on the floor, no chance of it jumping under him as he hammers like a table would, risking the second blow coming down on a finger.

The elbow pieces come first, heavy on the rivets given the strain the join will be under as d’Artagnan swings and moves. The other end of the strap he sews on, his stitches not as fine, perhaps, as Aramis’ but done with just as fierce a love.

When joining the shoulder pieces Porthos pries out the first set of rivets he drives, they are set too deeply and the lames will not move easily. After that he checks after each rivet to make sure the piece is still flexible. As bulky and stiff as the leather looks, in action it is flexible and the motion of the pieces together is smooth and graceful. His hand dwarfs the hammer but the blows are precise and centered.

When they finish it is perfect. But that is easily remedied.

****

After Porthos and Athos go to find cups and a bottle of brandy worth of the celebration, d’Artagnan turns to Aramis, finally finding his voice.

“This... I never dreamed.” His fingers stroke over the fleur-de-lis, bump over the rivets, toy with the buckles.

Aramis settles a hand over d’Artagnan’s neck. D’Artagnan can feel the warmth of his skin through the leather of his glove.

“One day, when I was a small boy, my father tried to show me how to splice rope for harnesses. His big hands moved so fast. When he said I should try I thought to reach for his knife, but instead my older brother passed me his own. He said to keep it, that I would need it, and that when I used it he would know I had a good knife that had been cared for and kept sharp and oiled.” Aramis' hand tightens, briefly, on d'Artagnan's neck. “As I said, if you are an older brother, these are the things you do."

When the other two return they pull up chairs and fill their glasses. They sit by the fire, watching together as it burns low.


End file.
